


Warrior Maid of the North

by Taffia



Series: Nordic Tales [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Blades, Bruma, Cyrodiil, F/M, Hero of Kvatch as Nerevarine, Nord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taffia/pseuds/Taffia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A soldier's life is a simple one, full of duty and routine. For Burd, captain of Bruma's city guard, routine was interrupted by the appearance of a Nord girl with no prospects...and no memory. She brought with her the stench of Oblivion, and he realized that it was not only through a Gate that he would follow her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warrior Maid of the North

She was no one when she first came to Bruma. Her armor was borrowed, the cuirass too ungainly and the greaves too long. The leather was worn and iron plate dented. Her sword was rusted and dull, but she carried it all like she was born to it. She had wandered about the town as if looking for something familiar. Her first stop was the inn for a drink. The next was the chapel for a quick prayer to the Nine. She paused for a long while in front of the vacant house near the south gate. Peering inside, she wouldn’t be able to see anything, but she lingered there all the same. She was still young, the blush of health bright in her cheeks, but she stood like something heavy had long weighed upon her. She had seen battle--perhaps many times--and would likely see many more.  
  
Come morning, she was gone.  
  
Life in Bruma continued without a one mentioning the strange Nord girl that had just passed through. Captain Burd, however, made note of everyone that even approached the gates. The rumors of Oblivion gates opening were too serious to ignore, and no presence could be marked as trivial. A week brought with it news from the south that Kvatch had been completely destroyed. A young warrior had helped the local militia close the gate and fight off the remaining daedra. No one seemed to know who it was.  
  
When she came through again, Burd was making his usual rounds. She stood in front of the vacant house once more, her dark eyes staring up at the carvings of the front door, her arms crossed over the better-fitting cuirass that marked her as a member of the Blades. So much for being a nobody. But he knew as well as the next man that there was no longer an emperor to protect.  
  
“It’s for sale, you know,” he told her, standing near her shoulder that he might keep his voice down. “If you’re looking for a quiet place to hang your sword, I couldn’t think of a better place than Bruma.”  
  
She blinked up at him, startled, but remained silent for a moment. There was an agelessness in those eyes, but Burd had a strong feeling that he was old enough to be her father. He felt his jaw clench. What business had the Blades in recruiting one so young when they no longer.... He inhaled a breath to calm himself. It was not his business, and he’d received correspondence from Jauffre that vigilance must be maintained. The Oblivion gates. The guardians of the Dragonborn still had their purpose.  
  
“I haven’t the coin,” she replied simply.  
  
“Easily remedied,” the captain of the guard replied. He turned to point up the hill to the terraces beneath the castle. “The Fighter’s Guild always needs a hand, and I’m sure the folk around town probably have some odd jobs.” Burd nodded to her armor. “The Blades not keeping you busy enough?”  
  
She shrugged. “Not much coin in what I do.” She hefted the Daedric shield upon her left arm and looked back at the house. “But it is what it is.”  
  
The guard captain nodded and moved his finger to point at the inn across the cobbled street. “Olav’s will let you save up.” And he bent forward to whisper in her ear. A rumor, nothing more. She looked up at him curiously, but all he did was bow his head and smile. “Captain Burd, milady. May your stay in Bruma be a pleasant one. It’s as close to home as we Nords can get.”  
  
And he strode away, following the road along the southern wall to loop back up to the terraces.  
  
“Mara,” he heard a voice call after him. Turning, he noticed that the young woman was regarding him fully, golden hair framing her smiling face. “My name is Mara.”  
  


~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

  
Weeks passed. More Oblivion gates opened all over Cyrodiil, and Mara was frequently off on a never-ending duty to close them. When she would return to Bruma, she would fall into a chair at Olav’s and be as likely to fall asleep in the dinner served her as eat it. Her Blades armor was slowly replaced by something else...something older but looking amazingly new. Heavy chain and plate gleamed beneath a white tabard with a simple crimson emblem. Not just a Nord and a born fighter, this woman was a Crusader for the Nine, and she took her job almost too seriously. The folk would ask for tales of things she saw beyond the gates, of the old legends she dug up in the process, of the Blades and what they would do without an emperor. She answered very little but would still attempt to be friendly.  
  
Captain Burd would keep an eye on her out of curiosity, watching as she progressed from being a stranger to both herself and others into something she could be comfortable with. And he could tell. Her vacant stares were fewer. She would get lost in thought less. Her armor, despite its age, suited her better than he could have thought possible. But there was still something off about her. During a time when she had a longer reprieve in town than a single evening, the captain bought her a drink and joined her for her simple dinner at the inn.  
  
“Saving your septims?” he asked as he set down a frothy mug of ale before her. He took a seat across from her at one of the round tables in the middle of the room. A dice game was going on not far away where the drink had already flowed freely. Their words would be drowned out by the din.  
  
Mara nodded, wrapping her pale fingers about the mug’s handle but not yet lifting it to drink. “They come dearly.”  
  
A wan smile passed across Burd’s lips before he tipped back some of his own drink. “As do many things in this world. Every accomplishment has a cost as well as a reward. We just always hope the latter outweighs the former.” His smile became more jovial. “But, think about it. Very soon you’ll have a home--a proper one--and still be able to maintain your service to the Blades.” A crash came from the table behind them as a drunken Imperial fell over a chair instead of sitting in it. “And there will be fewer dalliances with drunkards.”  
  
The woman laughed, “Aren’t we Nords supposed to be used to that sort of thing?”  
  
“You tell me,” Burd replied. He polished off his drink and raised his hand for another. Olav obliged quickly while bringing Mara her usual dinner at the same time. “Surely, you grew up in Skyrim.”  
  
Mara’s brow furrowed, perplexed. “No, I...I don’t believe I grew up there, no.”  
  
“You ‘don’t believe’? How can one not know where they grew up?”  
  
A blush reddened her cheeks and forehead, and she nervously tried to brush a loose curl of hair behind her ear from where it had come loose from its coil of braid. “I can’t remember very much, sir. I woke up in the dungeons of the Imperial City. The emperor was there. He...he had me help guard him as they tried to escape. There is nothing before that.”  
  
A black eyebrow rose on the captain’s face. “An Imperial prisoner? Why were you arrested?”  
  
Mara shook her head. She didn’t know that, either. She drained her ale in one go, probably trying to hide her obvious embarrassment. The older man reached over and gave her forearm a comforting squeeze.  
  
“Your actions have already spoken for you, Hero of Kvatch,” he said lowly. He shifted his chair closer as more bodies tried to cram around the dice table. “Jauffre has entrusted you with the very fate of the Empire, and that, I do believe, matters far more than any crimes of the past.”  
  
There was a sudden clatter at the door, a pounding as if several all struggled for the latch. Then, bodies poured through, men dressed in the yellow of the city guard.  
  
“Captain!” the man at the fore shouted. Burd immediately bolted to his feet. Mara stood just as swiftly and came to his side. “Captain, there is another gate!”  
  
Burd sighed in exasperation and raked a hand through his silvering black hair. “Yes. They are all over the countryside. What do you expect me to--”  
  
“It’s just outside the main gate of Bruma!”  
  


~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

  
Burd and Mara stopped to catch breath in a hallway of the Daedric tower. The woman had gone ahead of the city guard as they plowed forward, her shield their bulwark as they cut through daedra and dremora both. She was spent, and Burd found himself wondering how she managed to do this so frequently. But he knew that, at the same time, they were holding her back. One person navigating the halls and traps and sneaking by the enemy was much easier than an entire unit of half a dozen. Still, the purpose was that they might learn how these gates were closed. It was the captain’s idea. It should never fall to the lot of only one to shoulder such a burden.  
  
“When we get out of here,” Burd rasped to her, his breathing as labored as hers, “remind me that I owe you a drink.”  
  
“When we get out of here,” Mara replied as she wiped sweat from her brow, “I’ll owe you all you can drink.” She glanced over with a warm but tired smile. “If that’s what you want.”  
  
She got up, then, grabbing up her sword and shield and charging into the next room. Nothing suffered more than a few blows of her smart and ancient blade, and the city guard were hard-pressed to keep up. Burd raced to her side as she found herself flanked by a dremora warrior, its mace coming down hard on the armor of her back. She cried out and fell, the guard moving in to pull her away while the captain handled the enemy himself. When it was over, he spun quickly to make his way back to her, gesturing to one of his men to search the bodies for anything useful.  
  
“It’s nothing,” she told him through a grimace. She was sitting upright but was leaning forward and rubbing at the base of her skull. Her breaths were shuddering and shallow, and there was a dazed expression in her eyes.  
  
Burd shook his head at her, ice-blue eyes brimming with concern. “It’s not nothing. That mace would have felled the stoutest of men.” He looked back over his shoulder and up the spiraling path that looked like it was made out of flesh, bone, and sinew more than any proper construction material. “Tell me what I need to do.”  
  
Mara weakly pointed up the path. “The sigil stone glows at the top of the pillar of fire. Take it and come back to me. And be quick. Without the stone the gate will close, and we must be all together for it to send us back out.”  
  
The captain nodded sharply and set about his duty.  
  


~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

  
There were not many strings to pull to get the house. Captain Burd had the Countess’ ear, and his praises of Mara’s heroism made the matter of gold a non-issue (though he was sure it would come out of his pay over time). Burd carried Mara to the bed in her new house himself, tugging her free of her bloodied armor as a woman from the chapel brought fresh water and potions to clean and heal her. The young Hero of Kvatch had lost consciousness in the flash of the gate releasing them and was now lost in a fitful sleep doubtlessly full of nightmare.  
  
Burd sat at her bedside for hours. His chin was pressed into his hands as he periodically went from staring at the floor to her face. Golden strands were plastered to her forehead and neck with sweat as if from fever, and when her body had stopped thrashing, her expression was no less troubled. Unable to sit around and do nothing, Burd eventually stood and went about setting the place to rights as much as possible. Mara had meagre possessions, but there was at least a collection of books and scrolls to line the shelves. Her armor he placed neatly in a trunk, and he managed to find a place to display her sword and shield where they were also quickly accessible. He stood in the middle of the room to survey his accomplishment. It wasn’t much...but it was something.  
  
Some time later, when Mara calmed but still slept, he sneaked away to Olav’s to get something for them to eat. The usual crowd was there rejoicing at the victory, but they quickly sobered when Burd stepped into the taproom. One among them was a guard off duty, and he rushed to get to his feet when the captain approached.  
  
“Captain--the Hero. Is she--”  
  
“She’s fine,” was the tired reply as he put in for the usual with Olav. “She sleeps.”  
  
Olav loaded bread and vegetables into a basket along with a bottle of mead he’d been saving for a special occasion. It was obvious he was loath to part with it, but a stern look from Burd quickly changed his mind. The captain made his way back quickly. A fresh snow was falling, and the fire would need to be built up again to keep Mara from contracting a fever.  
  
Her wound had been serious. There was no broken skin, but the bruising across her back was extensive. The normally white skin was black and red and purple, swollen and there was a chance that bones were damaged. There was nothing broken. A blessing, if a small one.  
  
When he walked back into the bedroom, he was startled to see Mara trying to sit up in bed. She was wincing in pain and not having much luck of it. Burd quickly set the basket of food aside and dashed forward, gently taking her by the shoulders and easing her back down and tucking the blanket back up around her for the sake of modesty. She grabbed at one of his hands as if defensive, giving him a pained yet confused look.  
  
“Easy,” he cautioned her, stroking her hair back before reaching for the rag and cool water on the bedside stand. He gently dabbed at her brow and hoped that it did some small measure to soothe her. “The gate is closed. Everyone is safe.”  
  
Mara wilted into the mattress. Her eyes closed as if grateful, and her grip on Burd’s hand eased. She winced again when her shoulders screamed in pain, but she bore it in silence.  
  
“We have the sigil stone,” Burd went on, continuing to mop her brow with his only free hand. Her grip was less, but she had refused to let go, his hand caught up and their fingers linked. He paused when he actually saw. He brushed his thumb along her smallest finger and squeezed the rest comfortingly. “No losses, milady. Your wound is the worst hit we took.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“I brought food if you’re hungry. Olav’s.”  
  
Her eyes opened and came to focus on his. She was silent for a long time, holding his gaze with the sudden depth of clarity. There was no telling what was going on in her head. She was still trying to find something familiar, to remember who she even was. She called herself Mara after her patron goddess, but it was a common enough name amongst Skyrim women. Less so in the southern provinces.  
  
He had seen her scars, long lacerations across her abdomen and along her arms. Some were years old. Whoever this woman was, she had likely seen war--not just skirmishes or bandits on the road. Even what they saw beyond the gates was not enough to intimidate or completely fell her. Dremora. The only reason she’d been knocked down had been because she’d overextended herself protecting  them . And he could give her nothing back. No words of encouragement. No clues to memories lost.  
  
Burd’s focus must have wandered. His hand holding the cloth was resting on the pillow, the linen soaking up the cool water. Mara’s free hand was alongside his face, pulling his attention back to her. Her expression was worried and full of gratitude at the same time. A tired smile curled the corners of her mouth.  
  
“The food sounds brilliant, Captain. You need to eat as much as I.”  
  


~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

  
Hers was a fast recovery. Burd made checking on her a part of his usual rounds, and over the course of a few weeks, he watched her go from barely being able to move to as good as new. She had kept to her bed for most of it. Skjorta had done an excellent job of looking after her and made sure Mara had clothes made of the softest fabrics available until her bruises stopped being sensitive. The day Burd stepped into the house and found Mara sorting things on the shelves in the great room, he couldn’t help but smile.  
  
She wore a blouse and skirt of burgundy linen. Her feet were booted in wolf pelt that she had likely skinned herself during her earlier journeys. Her hair was once more neatly braided and coiled at the back of her head, a few strands loose to frame her face that once more held a healthy blush. She returned his smile with one of her own and turned to face him with her hands folded before her.  
  
“Skjorta told me what you did, you know. That you got me the house.”  
  
Burd awkwardly cleared his throat. The air suddenly felt close and his hands cold even within his gloves. “I told you they were your reward for service.”  
  
“Yes, but from the Countess. Not from you.” Mara closed the space between them and lightly kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”  
  
It was suddenly hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to swallow. Burd’s throat was unbelievably dry, and the soft scent of lavender soap did very little to help things. That he had grown to respect the young Nord woman was undeniable. That he had cared for her as he would a daughter--as she very well could have been--was beyond true. But it also wasn’t. He took her hands in his and took a step back, looking from her surprisingly delicate fingers to the curve where her shoulder met her neck to the doelike darkness of her eyes. In that moment, she wasn’t the Hero of Kvatch. She wasn’t layered in armor and wielding deadly steel. She was a woman in a dress.  
  
And he was staring.  
  
Mara squeezed his hands to bring him back, her smile turning into a small laugh. “I’ve made some stew if you’re hungry, Captain. I know you were getting sick of Skjorta’s cooking.”  
  
Burd cleared his throat again as he watched her walk back across the room to set the table. “I have no wish to impose. I’m just checking in to see how you’re feeling.”  
  
She smiled more widely as she ladled the hearty-smelling stew into clay bowls and set them on the table. Venison, boar, leeks, carrots, potatoes, spices fresh from the outlying countryside. Burd’s nose led him to the table as much as anything else, fascinated that the warrior woman was capable of the domestic as much as the martial. Fresh bread was sliced and honey mead poured. When Burd sat and took his first bite, he swore to Talos that he would never eat at Olav’s again.  
  
They talked of small things, of the weather and the last sermon to the Nine. He told her of the goings-on in the barracks, and she mentioned the latest gossip Skjorta fed her from messengers fresh from the Imperial City. The Oblivion gates had become commonplace and some so inactive that many wondered how much of a threat they really were. Mara hinted at things she would have to take care of once fully restored to health. It was evident enough that she was itching to get back out there, to fulfill her duty and promise to the emperor. It was then that Burd learned of Martin and was sworn to secrecy. There were spies. The Mythic Dawn was growing ever more dangerous. Someone needed to know in case things got worse.  
  
“The gates get harder to close the more that open. Each a greater challenge than the last.” Mara tore a slice of bread to mop at her leftover broth. “But closing them is always the same. Always the sigil stone. More people need to know this, but I’m afraid of the Mythic Dawn finding out.”  
  
“Didn’t you clear out their meeting place?”  
  
She nodded. “That’s why they got desperate and tried to make a direct hit on the Blades. I fear that they know about Martin...that having the Amulet of Kings isn’t enough for them.”  
  
So much for talking about the small things.  
  
At the very least, Mara was still conversational about it. She wasn’t really talking as if this were some topic of supreme weight where the world were about to end. She knew the cult was delayed. She knew that the gates were inactive because the enemy had hit a snag. What it was, she couldn’t place, but they  had time . That’s what mattered. She was talking like it were just another hurdle in getting the crops planted at just the right time to avoid a late frost. She was talking like saving the world was just another routine thing for her. Like she’d done it before, and when she sighed the way she did--exasperated and heavy--like it was almost an inconvenience.  
  
It was an unfair situation. A stranger not only to Cyrodiil but to herself had wound up a fulcral point around which cosmic machinations turned. The Nine had blessed her with sacred armor. Uriel Septim had seen glimpses at her future and trusted her with what had remained of his life. And here she was, the Hero of Kvatch, the Hero of Bruma...expected to carry all this weight alone because the only others who cared were shackled with the responsibility of guarding the only Dragonborn left.  
  
Burd reached over and squeezed Mara’s hand. She was almost startled at the gesture, her chatter ceasing as she looked from their clasped fingers to the intensity of his eyes. There was no exchange of words, but the captain immediately regretted having taken his gloves off. There was a sudden rush of heat to his face, his extremities, and he quickly rose to his feet and straightened his tabard.  
  
“I must be about my duties, milady,” he explained lamely in response to her wide-eyed shock. Determined to apologize, he took a step closer and bowed slightly. “The meal was delicious and deeply appreciated. I will come by again tomorrow. Do you need anything?”  
  
Mara shook her head and stood to see him out. The distance to the door was not far, but they took their time, close but not touching, silent but communicating everything. Burd welcomed the chill when he stepped outside, the weather sobering him as well as a jump in an icy pond could do.  
  


~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

  
When he returned the following day, he arrived just in time to watch her buckle on her sword. She was fully armored minus helmet and gauntlets, and from the look of her knapsack, she was planning on a significant journey. She smiled when she saw him, tossing her gauntlets to the bed before she could bother to put them on.  
  
“Jauffre’s suggestion,” Mara said. “The temple makes Bruma a target. I’m going to find you all the aid I can.”  
  
Burd shook his head. “There are gates outside every city. Why would any spare us the men?”  
  
“I’ll get rid of the gates. They’ll have no choice.”  
  
“There are dozens of them! And, forgive my boldness, but it didn’t go so well for you the last time.” He reined in his tone. “Teach others to fend for themselves. It is not so impossible a task.”  
  
Mara looked up at him, sense and defiance conflicting in her eyes. She was searching his at the same time, peering into the fiery ice as if they held answers to some untold question. “I don’t do this to be a martyr or a hero,” she replied eventually. “I don’t even do this strictly for Martin, though Jauffre would have it so. Were it only that, I would march to the Imperial City and demand the Legion serve its emperor. No. I do this for the entirely selfish reason that, if I don’t, I risk losing you. I owe you my life, Captain. And you shall have it.”  
  
Burd was struck speechless. He knew this woman to never balk at self-sacrifice, to never shy away from the fight that could mean her end. To do so for the Blades was one thing. To do it for  him ? He stood not a pace from her, hands on his belt in the way he always stood when contemplating whether or not to discipline one of his own soldiers. This instance was quite different. This soldier was not for him to punish--especially for following her given orders--but that didn’t mean that the motivation to get upset wasn’t there.  
  
“Owing me your life is not a reason to risk it,” he said quietly. “I won’t allow it.”  
  
“The sun will rise whether you allow it or not.”  
  
His eyes narrowed but he didn’t have it in him to direct the glare at her. “Without you, there would be no  point to the sunrise,  brii .”  
  
The admission stunned them both. Mara’s eyes grew wide in wonderment at the same time his heart sank in shame. It was the Nord way to take whatever one wanted whenever one wanted it, but Burd was a man of the Empire. He was a man of discipline. He had to be in order to maintain the respect of his men--Imperials the lot of them.  
  
“I should let you be about your business,” he said at last, feeling supremely uncomfortable.   
  
He kept his farewell brief. He made her promise to return. It wasn’t just that her return marked continued safety for Bruma in these dark times. It was home--her home as well as his. And now, as the shiver in his chest promised, it would never be the same without her.  
  


~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

  
Celebrating a hero in Olav’s Tap and Tack seemed a little inappropriate, but it was a familiar place full of familiar faces. The Imperial City had wanted to celebrate her in their own way. Mara, apparently, would have none of it. The Empire named her Champion, and in the next breath she was gone, riding her horse hard and fast into the frozen north.   
  
She had arrived in Bruma in the trappings of the Divine Crusader. When she stepped into the firelit space of the tavern, she was quite different. She was garbed in her red linen dress, the brass buttons gleaming along the black V of the collar. Her hair was braided and pulled back only in the front. Most of the golden locks hung long and loose down her back and twisted in loose curls at her elbows. No sword. No armor. She was just a woman swarmed upon by other women who wanted to hear all about what happened to Martin.  
  
Burd watched in restrained amusement. He and the other guards were already at their ease, tipping back mugs of dark ale. Their part in all this had long been finished. And, so far as the common guards of Bruma were concerned, closing those three smaller Oblivion gates had been three too many. As for his part in all of it, Burd had gone about his duty with a resolved fervor. If Mara was out in the world fighting worse things, he could manage a few gates. Waiting for her to return from the Imperial City had passed the more quickly for it, but it was no less agonizing. Finally seeing her there in Olav’s was as if all the blessings of the Nine had converged. He was more than just calm. But he didn’t quite know what it was.  
  
Skjorta and the others eventually let Mara break free when her stolen glances at Burd’s table became more pointed and lingering. She sat down without preamble, and ale was served immediately. The guards toasted her heroism, her victories. They asked about the dragon of Akatosh. The rumor had traveled more swiftly home to Bruma than she had. She didn’t feel terribly keen to answer. It was a sore subject for many. Akatosh’s avatar making an appearance had meant the death of the last member of the Septim bloodline. The end of the Dragonborn. So far as any were aware. There was no telling what that meant for the rest of the world, so Mara kept her retelling brief.  
  
A bard began to pluck out a merry tune in the tradition of the Skyrim Nords. Adding voice to song, he chronicled--in a suitably exaggerated fashion--Mara’s accomplishments throughout Cyrodiil. None of it told of her beginnings as a capital prisoner, the struggles she went through internally trying to remember who she even was. No one knew of the young woman who yearned for home without even knowing where that home was. Burd had hoped Bruma would fill that particular void.  
  
The other guards eventually wandered off to the bar proper or the dice games starting up at other tables. Mara appeared to be physically grateful for the reprieve. Her demeanor relaxed, though wilted was a more suitable description. There was a tiredness to her face that hadn’t been there before. Her cheeks were rosy from the drink, but her eyes lacked their usual luster. Eighty days, Burd realized. She had been ceaselessly combatting the Oblivion Crisis for eighty days. He doubted much of that had garnered her any rest.  
  
He reached over and squeezed her hand, lowering his head closer to hers so she could hear him without his having to speak loudly. Mara nodded a single, slow time, and the two of them rose to make their way out of the tavern. The cold of the night was welcome, a gentle snow falling new upon the ground. For the first time in months, the sky was clear and dark, the glittering of stars the only lights. There was no red tinge, no Oblivion storms. There was nothing but winter silence.  
  
Mara’s house was warm when they entered. She had already stoked the fire and unpacked from her long journeys. Armor hung on racks. The metal gleamed. The parts that were cloth had been cleaned of blood. She had already tried to relax in her own way. Repetition. Routine. Burd took a moment to admire her handiwork. The condition of the Armor of the Divine Crusader was sublime. Next to it hung the Armor of Valor from time spent in the Arena, the crimson and gold practically new. He gave it a closer look. It  was new.  
  
“I couldn’t come straight back,” she said in response to his unasked question. “I just...wasn’t ready. Not for all the questions. Trying to leave the Imperial City was impossible. They wouldn’t let me--naming me some Champion of Cyrodiil.” She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. “The fighters of the Arena were so sequestered they hadn’t heard of me. Not my name, not the Divine Crusader, not the Hero of Kvatch.”  
  
“So, instead, you just went and made another name for yourself.” Burd looked over at her, an amused smile quirking the corners of his mouth. “Hiding from your adoring public in plain sight. The Divine Avenger. It suits you.”  
  
“Don’t say that,” Mara retorted wearily. “I was just trying to come to terms with what happened. Looking for something familiar where nothing was. If I remember nothing else, I remember how to fight. And I apparently remember it well.”  
  
Burd stepped over to her and lifted her chin with his fingers. His thumb brushed over her lips. Her eyes widened for a moment at his touch, but she didn’t flinch. The captain had regretted his conduct toward her when Martin had proposed that they allow a Great Gate to open. His reaction had been based more on knowing that Mara would be flung inside it...but he had taken it out on her. He had accused her of endangering Bruma by going along with the madness, by performing her duty for Emperor and Empire as one of the Blades. And when he had congratulated her on a job well done, it had been as one of the guard, just another soldier cheering on his hero.  
  
It had been unacceptable. And he was determined to remedy that.  
  
Tentatively, wordlessly, he lowered his lips to hers, giving her time to pull away if he was at all unwelcome. She came up to meet him, instead, pressing in close and sliding her arms up and over his shoulders. It was both reserved and impassioned, as if she’d been holding back on his behalf but now acted on her own. There was nothing to forgive. There was no room for regret in the space they shared in a moment that was willing to give them forever. Honey mead and lavender. The scent of her hair and taste of her sweet mouth. That became the whole world to him as they shared breath.  
  
He carried her down the stairs to her bed, the room lit only by a handful of tallow candles. The mattress cradled them both in its downy expanse, the blankets warm against the winter night. Burd’s armor was cast in a careless pile on the floor alongside Mara’s dress. The feel of her skin was as inviting as her kisses. Her fingers trailed through the gray of his hair, but he no longer worried that he was too much her senior. She had made her choice as he had made his. That was the way of the Nords of Skyrim, and that was good enough for them both.  
  
When sleep finally overtook them, not even the toll of the chapel bell could penetrate the weight of needed slumber. The sound did not reach them. The daylight couldn’t touch them underground as they were. Only the chill that came as the last of the embers died made Mara shift deeper beneath the blankets and closer against Burd. His eyes cracked open at the small disturbance, his gaze immediately taking in the peace of her face, the wisps of golden strands that curled along her temples, the rise and fall of her shoulder as she breathed. He pulled the blankets tighter about them and closed his eyes again.   
  
There was no way sleep would come again. Adrenaline was suddenly pounding through his veins when he realized fully where he was. Legs and arms were tangled together. A woman’s bare skin touched his so completely they could have easily been one being. Truly, for the first time since he’d met her, Burd was able to think of her as just a woman. Not a warrior and not a hero and definitely not the individual whom had just helped to save the entire world. She was Mara. She was his. And that was all that mattered.  
  


~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

  
The time after the Oblivion Crisis was peaceful for Bruma. The Elder Council had stepped in where the Empire lacked an Emperor and kept things moving well enough that none of the cities suffered. Summons were sent along all the main roads to try to find the Champion of Cyrodiil. Brigands were threatening pilgrims. A ruin was infested with vampires. Pirates had docked in Anvil and threatened to drink it dry. Mara received each summons and summarily ignored it.  
  
The truth was, she couldn’t have gone even had she wanted to. She was busy enough around town, learning to sew from Skjorta and forging and mending armor with Olfand. Burd had to rein her in on even that when there was a noticeable swell to her belly. Skjorta would come to her instead, the two of them sitting near the fire embroidering shirts until the captain returned from the barracks.  
  
It never ceased to amaze Burd how easily Mara had taken to the domestic life. Then again, it was the epitome of her namesake. She seemed to be completely content having hung up her armor. When warranted, she issued orders to the Knights of the Nine (usually in regards to the bandits and vampires), but she didn’t even bother to polish her sword beyond what was necessary.  
  
Her cooking was simple but effective. More than field rations but less than the savory, spiced dishes of the south. Practical. Filling. Burd never went hungry and never had any complaints. Even when it bothered her to be on her feet, she made sure there was something hot on the table when he arrived home.  
  
Hero of Kvatch. Divine Crusader. Champion of Cyrodiil. The Divine Avenger. Domestic Goddess.  
  
Mara. All she was was Mara.  
  
The day came when a summons arrived that she could not ignore. It came in the form of a man, Imperial and white-haired, that pounded on the door to their house one spring night. Burd answered, taking quick note of the Blades insignia stitched at the collar of the stranger’s shirt. He was a tall man and broad, a scruff of beard covering his jaw and cheeks as if he had been unable to shave in some time. The newcomer bowed politely and presented a scroll imprinted with the Imperial seal.  
  
“I come on behalf of the Empire,” he said in a smooth, deep voice. “I am looking for Mara Hollsten.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?” Burd moved so that he filled the doorway. He refused to take the scroll for a moment and fixed a hard look upon the Imperial. “On what business? Even the town halfwit of Braviil knows that anything ‘on behalf of the Empire’ is merely grasping at what used to be.”  
  
The Imperial said nothing and merely held the scroll up again in offering.  
  
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”  
  
“I am Caius Cosades,” the Imperial replied without a hint of hesitation. “I am of the Blades, and I have travelled a long way from Morrowind to deliver this message. Please. Those at the gate said that Mara was here. Her trail leads here. I must speak with her.”  
  
Burd did not like the situation at all. If the Blades had business with Mara, they would have simply walked down from their fortress on the mountainside. There was no reason to send a courier--especially from so distant as Morrowind. Warily, he stepped aside and bade the man enter. If nothing else, he bore the Imperial seal, and the guardsman had made thorough note of any weapons. When Caius was inside, Burd went ahead into the kitchen to warn Mara, but she was already well aware. Three bowls of stew were on the table, and cool water filled glasses with a pitcher for more. Burd stood protectively near her--unnecessary but instinctive--until Caius was seated.  
  
They ate in silence for a time, the Blade digging in like a man long famished. By the state of his clothes, it was no wonder. Even in the heart of the Empire, he looked like he hadn’t stopped for anything, hadn’t taken shelter at any town. Not until now. He didn’t speak until he’d finished his first bowl of stew, looking up at Mara with a friendly smile.  
  
“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “Not the place or...situation I would have expected, but you’re safe. That’s what’s important.”  
  
Mara gave him a curious expression as she got to her feet to serve him more stew. “It would help if I knew who was worried about me,” she replied.  
  
“Many. The Blades, the Legion, the Dunmer...by the Nine, most of Morrowind. We spread the rumor of your going to Akavir ourselves if only to buy us the time to find you. Mara. We need you to come back to Morrowind.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Burd demanded, stopping Mara from serving anything further.  
  
Caius presented the scroll again, this time to Mara herself. She took it brusquely, an annoyed expression on her face, and she read it quickly. She handed it to Burd when she was done. It was an Imperial summons alright, but it had nothing to do with the Emperor. Not any Septim, at any rate. King Helseth of Morrowind was looking for the Nerevarine. And he called her out by name. Mara Hollsten.  
  
That she had a surname was a stunning enough development. Hunted by kings wasn’t such a shock. But Nerevarine? Burd read through the salutation again if for nothing other than his own level of disbelief. He added all the titles to his own mental tally.  
  
To the esteemed Mara Hollsten, Grandmaster of the Fighters Guild, Sister Councilman of House Hlaalu, Knight of the Imperial Dragon, Knight Sister of the Blades, Nerevarine, I send you greetings.  
  
“My name is Mara,” the Nord woman stated firmly, the bowl of steaming stew still gripped in her hands, “nothing more. My home is here in Bruma. My family is here. My people are here. Your Nerevarine is in Akavir or nowhere at all. Now. If you would be so kind as to leave my home, I would appreciate it. I’m suddenly not feeling very well.”  
  
Caius Cosades made to protest, reaching out toward Mara with a suddenly desperate look on his face. “You don’t understand,” he exclaimed as Burd clamped his hands to his shoulders and dragged him from his seat. “We are losing our grip on Morrowind--the entire  reason you were sent there to begin with was to prevent that! We have no Emperor. Don’t make us also lose the Empire!”  
  
Mara’s expression was frosty as she watched the guard captain toss the disgraced Blade back out into the cold. “A Blade’s duty is to protect the Emperor, not the Empire,” she replied with a dangerous narrowing of the eyes. “You’ve forgotten your duty.”  
  
“But I’ve not forgotten who I am,” was the retort. The Imperial was insistent on keeping his footing and his pride. “It is more than I can say for some.” He turned to look away from them both, then, taking in the road leading away from the eastern gate and whatever lay out there beyond the distant horizon. When he returned his gaze to her face, it was softer, older, much more weary. “I had hoped to find a hero when I came here.”  
  
“You did,” Burd replied, pointing in the direction of the main gate and the Imperial’s hopefully prompt exit. “Just not the sort you wanted.”  
  
They watched Caius’ grudging form as he left by the main road, winding its way down the mountain toward the Imperial City. Burd twisted the scroll in his hands. The parchment crumpled and tore, but he didn’t seem to care. The confusion was more than he could stand. Balling it into a wad of uselessness, he cast it aside into a puddle of muddy slush. He wrapped an arm around Mara’s shoulders and guided her back into the house. The rest of dinner was eaten in silence. If questions burned at either one of them, they never spoke on the matter again.  
  


~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

  
The day the healers from the Mages Guild forced Burd from his own home felt like the end of the world had truly come. Cries came from the lower floor as Mara lay embattled in their bed, held by all four limbs to keep her from maiming the midwife. The baby refused to wait for salves or serums or prayers. By the time Burd had even been able to summon the midwife, the warrior woman had already taken matters into her own hands, the hilt of a knife clamped in her teeth.  
  
Despite this, it was not a quick birth. At least it didn’t feel that way. The captain paced in the street before the house, some of his men looking on in worried curiosity. Few of them had wives. There was no way they could truly understand. Burd realized that he’d rather the Great Oblivion Gate open once more than listen to Mara’s agonized (or were they merely angry?) screams.  
  
It was some time before the house fell silent and one of the mages opened the door. Burd rushed back inside and down the stairs, not stopping until he was in the doorway to the bedroom. He stood there in awe. Mara lay in the bed, more radiant than he had ever seen her even with her tired eyes and sweat-soaked hair. She held the baby in her arms, bright pink and squirming. When she looked up at Burd, she smiled, bidding him come closer with a nod.  
  
“Come see,” Mara said hoarsely. “Come see our son.”  
  
Burd sat beside her on the bed. He kissed her deeply before turning his attention fully to the infant wrapped in a woollen blanket and tucked in his mother’s protective arms. His hair was dark as winter midnight. His eyes, squinted as they were, were a deep and fathomless blue. His tiny hands grasped at Burd’s fingers, squeezing down with surprising strength.  
  
“Have you considered a name?” The Altmer midwife had gone nearly forgotten until she spoke, quill and parchment in hand to record the new addition to the town.  
  
“Stendarr,” Burd replied as his thumb brushed gently across his son’s fingers. “His name is Stendarr Burdson, begotten of Mara. May he be worthy of the name and walk in the blessing of the Nine.”  
  
“And may a Septim never dream of him,” Mara added almost under her breath.  
  
The guard captain raised a curious eyebrow. “There are no Septims left to dream,  brii .”  
  
She shrugged but made no reply, turning all her attentions to the child in her arms. It was a valid concern, Burd realized, seeing his woman more invigorated after the long labor of childbirth than he’d ever known her to be in the throes of heroic victory. Theirs was the son of a child of prophecy. But he was also the son of a lowly guard captain. The hope in Mara’s heart was clearly that Stendarr took after his father.  
  
At the very least, there were no Oblivion gates in his future. But there were always beasts and bandits, and Burd knew from experience that little boys made it a habit to look for trouble.  
  


~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

  
They picnicked in the meadow at the foot of the mountain. Stendarr was enraptured by the butterflies flitting about the wildflowers. He chased them with pudgy hands extended, positively squealing with joy. Burd and Mara watched from the woven rug spread upon the ground. They were eating a light lunch of bread and vegetables washed down by the fine wine of Skingrad. A young Bosmer girl new to the Mages Guild was with them. Hers was a twofold duty: to gather herbs for her alchemy assignments and to keep a close eye on the toddling baby while his parents enjoyed a moment to themselves. She had eventually made her job infinitely easier by enchanting a paper butterfly to lure the little Stendarr around to the plants she needed. Quick-witted. She would be a boon to the mages of Bruma. Burd could tell already.  
  
“He will likely join the guard, you know,” Burd said at one point as Mara handed him another slice of bread smeared with preserves. “With you being the finest of warriors and me a soldier, there is no doubt. There is little else to expose him to in Bruma.”  
  
“He could as easily be a blacksmith or armorer, a stablewright or priest. Perhaps he will be advisor to the Countess. Maybe he will have talent for magic. I pray daily that the Lord of Mercy smiles upon him and shows favor. I would rather our child heal instead of harm. Tamriel has endured enough.”  
  
Muffled thunder interrupted their meal. Turning, Burd could see a half dozen horsemen coming down the road from the town. Blades in full armor with the bronze of their shields glinting in the spring sunlight. They could have been heading anywhere. Jauffre had been keeping them all busy as he could in Bruma’s best interests with the lack of an Emperor to serve, but it rarely involved a company of this size so equipped. When they diverted course and cut across the meadow toward them, Burd’s heart raced and his throat tightened. Mara tensed beside him. She was still one of them, motherhood aside, and the babe was now old enough that he could be left in the care of another should the need arise.  
  
It was Jauffre himself that addressed them, dismounting and closing the remaining distance on foot. He had aged even more swiftly in recent months than was due any man, but it was not hard to know the reason. These elite soldiers and spies were losing favor even among their own. The Imperial Legion had taken little time in establishing themselves as the new superior order in defense of the Empire, and the Council had supported the motion. Cloud Ruler Temple had refused to back down. While the Elder Council squabbled over how best to govern a barely cohesive empire, the Blades had diligently begun to search for other Dragonborn, any whom Akatosh may have also bestowed favor. It was a futile search spanning from Black Marsh to Skyrim, but the Blades were relentless.  
  
Burd half-expected their presence in the field to be begging Mara to go to the Imperial City, to wrangle the Council to order and potentially rule herself. Whispers had spun about since the visit of Caius Cosades, who had promptly gone to Cloud Ruler after the unsuccessful visit to their home. But that the Nerevarine was in Bruma...had never escaped beyond the thick walls at the top of the mountain. Neither had Cosades. It was not the business of the captain to ask, but he was nonetheless grateful.  
  
“Vvardenfell has been destroyed,” Jauffre stated without introduction or emotion. “They say the Ministry of Truth fell to earth and the Red Mountain erupted. The Dunmer cry for their Nerevarine and the Empire its Champion. The Elder Council at last calls for the Blades as guardians and advisors. Too much crumbles.” He looked Mara solidly in the eye from where he stood to where she remained seated. “I come only for an answer.”  
  
The Nord woman set aside her meal and got to her feet. She brushed bits of pollen and dirt from the crimson of her dress before she bothered to say anything. And, when she did, Burd knew that it was going to make thousands of people unhappy for varying reasons. Jauffre nodded a single time when she was finished and returned to his horse. It was a long journey to the Imperial City and all the longer for needing to tell an Empire that it had to fend for itself.  
  
And how bad was that, really, Burd wondered to himself, to allow one hero to rest that another might arise? Or, better still, allow the nations to be heroes to themselves. The Nords of Skyrim knew the value in that despite the long years of Imperial rule. It was in their blood. But to expect that of others? Of Bretons and Colovians and Nibenese, Altmer and Dunmer and Bosmer? They spent their time cowering while waiting for heroes rather than fighting until the help could arrive.  
  
They would learn.  
  
As the Blades vanished into the valley, Burd stood next to Mara. He took her hand in his, and they stared into the cloud of road dust in the southeast.  
  
“Perhaps I have only made the world worse by trying to save it,” Mara mused almost to herself, her grip like iron.  
  
“You saved it,  brii ,” was his reply. “That’s all you needed to do. What happens now is the business of others, and they’re just going to have to accept it.”


End file.
